der Regen -- what rain may fall
by minwa
Summary: Brad Crawford, loveless and ruthless, can no longer See the Future ... only his Past. What has made him what he is today? What can undo him?
1. - Prolouge -

Gentle hands. Gentle, soothing, small, cold hands that touched his face lovingly. It was a feeling he hadn't felt in a long time ... familiar, comforting ... he opened his eyes, even if he knew it was a dream.  
  
"It's okay, big brother, we're safe in here, they're asleep!"  
  
A smile on the face of the child fixing his wounds, her sweet continence plagued by bruises and cuts. But diligently she worked, carefully cleaning and smoothing the Band-Aids down just right, getting the gauze in a perfect square before taping. Truly, the little angel cared for her charge.  
  
He sighed as he watched her walk to get a fresh basin of water from their bathroom. She limped, her sprained leg improperly treated and probably giving her more pain than all of his cuts and scrapes combined. But she catered only for her brother's needs, because nothing else mattered more to her, and no matter how much pain she was in, it didn't matter. If her brother could get better, that's what made her happy. He always protected her, so she had to pay him back somehow.  
  
"...promise me," his voice cracked, "never let them use you. Never let on to them that your power is the one that feeds their greed."  
  
She didn't answer him. Instead, she leaned forward with a smile and kissed his cheek as she finished fixing him up, hugging him where she knew it wouldn't hurt him, curling up against his chest.  
  
"I love you, Bradley," she said quietly as he stroked her hair comfortingly, and he felt the comforting warmth of her breath on his skin as she dozed off and he kept his watchful eyes on the door...  
  
... and then the past formed of fragile glass shattered, dashing and scattering themselves loudly among the stream of time, violently clawing into the tender memories and tearing into a waking nightmare.  
  
Brad Crawford awoke with a gasp, his eyes wide, his body quivering underneath the covers of his plain bed. He cursed and shut his eyes tightly again, willing the want to cry go away, to rid himself of the ache in his chest. He would not let this get to him. Not now.   
  
But he failed, and tears strolled down stoic cheeks, chest heaving as it tried to control the sobs that he had forbidden himself to ever experience again. He bit his lip till he tasted blood, willing the sadness to go away, trying to concentrate on anything but the emotion that was ripping him apart after so many years of suppression.   
  
His weakness was finally catching up to him.  
  
And even the Oracle didn't know why.  
  
- der Regen -   
through what eyes cannot see  
through what dreams cannot reach  
through what rain may fall   
- -  
  
DISCLAIMER AND WARNINGS  
  
Schwarz-centric Fanfiction  
by minwa (Jana)  
janamousy@hotmail.com  
rated: R ... graphic violence, general darkness  
pairing?: BradxSchuldig EVENTUALLY ... very little is even hinted in the beginning chapters.  
summary: Brad is having Visions of his past instead of the future ... and it's driving him slowly mad.  
  
This particular work was started in idea two years ago by the roleplays I enjoy with two other friends, and in written form one year ago. This chapter itself -is- a year old, now. I haven't had the gusto to finish with it until now. It was written when there was little speculated on Crawford and I wished to show a little more into his past. Now, when he's much more popular (yay!) I wanted to give my hand into seeing if people liked the way I portrayed him.  
  
I tend to not read any fics that seem to closely relate to what I'm trying to read, just so that I won't be influensed by them. I also don't want to make myself out as a person who believes she is THE authority on Brad Crawford -- I am not and I know this.  
  
Eventually, romance will make it into this story. ^^; It will be a yaoi pairing -- Crawford and Schuldig -- and I want to make it progess as logically as I can. That is NOT the focus of this story, however: I want to explain Brad's past, and why he's the way he is, and that he is, perhaps, human. The pairing itself is actually very personal to me ... and I also do not try to offend people with it. I don't like other pairings, but I won't -attack- them. ^^ I enjoy being a very open-minded and tolerant person.  
  
Any sort of critique or complements are very welcome! No flames, please ... they're immature and I'm a terribly sensitive person. ^^;;;  
  
Warnings over ... now to post Chapter 1. ^_^  
  



	2. One :: Footsteps Lightly Taken

der Regen - what rain may fall  
  
rating: R for graphic description of death  
note: This is ONE YEAR OLD ... anything written after this should be much more ... ah ... refined? ^^; (I hope so!)  
  
minwa/Jana   
janamousy@hotmail.com   
  
  
  
chapter 1 - footsteps lightly taken  
-  
  
Schuldig bit hard on the cigarette clamped between his teeth, leaning back on the edge of the building he was loitering around. He was waiting and at the moment, he didn't really remember what he had been waiting for. He supposed it was for Crawford, who had skittered uncharacteristically far away from home, and the German didn't quite understand his desire to go find the American. All the dark-haired man was composed of was stone and steel, and he seemingly never had heard of the word "fun." Schuldig rolled his eyes at the thought and snubbed the cigarette out on the wall, crossing his arms and rubbing them before digging deep in his trenchcoat pockets.  
  
Suddenly, Schuldig was reminded on why he hated the northern part of the United States in the winter as it began to rain, freezingly close to being sleet and it was teasingly light at first with gusts of arctic winds that chilled the leanly muscled man quickly. The breeze picked up its pace and nipped at the flame of his lighter as he put another cigarette to his pale lips.   
  
It had been two years since the little sint with Weiss was over with and they had stuck together, him, the boy, the psycho, the brick wall. They never particularly cared to keep the company of another casually but they supported each other in their own passive ways. Nagi went to school and Farfarello stayed at home in his room, quiet... Crawford worked odd jobs that came his way and Schuldig freeloaded. It was a simple enough life, but now they didn't have Estet telling them how to live it.   
  
Despite his distaste for his comrade's dispassionate demeanor, Schuldig felt it was his duty to chase after Crawford ... after all, the man did pay all the bills. Besides, Nagi would've weaseled out of searching for him with the excuse of his homework and Schuldig wasn't about to let Farfarello out. As of late Crawford had been tomcatting away to God knew where, but Schuldig had managed to track him down wherever he went. Today he thought it would be the park again.  
  
Schuldig frowned slightly as he thought of this. Was *Crawford* of all people becoming sloppy, if Schuldig could so easily pick him out? It didn't seem possible, since he'd always been in control before, of everything. Yet lately, dark circles had appeared under those hard blue eyes and he was listless, always busying himself with his work and almost vacant in his speech. The things Schuldig normally did to get on Crawford's nerves to produce that annoyed reaction he enjoyed so much were just ignored now, or passed off with an airy, "I'm working, please go away." Crawford never said "please" before. It was like he'd become a shadow of the Uptight Businessman he was before ... plus shallow and lightheaded. Schuldig didn't like it one bit.  
  
The cigarette burned down as the sleet became prevalent, Schuldig's mind still on the American. He marveled at the feeling of 'worry' gnawing at him. He didn't quite know if it was for himself and his fear of Crawford suddenly acting distant and depressive whereas he never did before, or for Crawford himself... His musings were interrupted as the familiar twinge of Crawford's presence hit his senses, and he finally pushed himself from the building's face, walking to where his mind directed him to go with long-legged gracefulness as the sleet prevailed and ice coated the city, an unwelcome winter blanket.  
  
--*  
  
It was frigid and blustery, and unfortunately, the boy's uncovered ears and face suffered  
the brunt of it. Dry lashings of chilled air bit at his face as he made his way down from the ice-laden hillpath, whipping raw into already reddened cheeks. Tears stung his eyes again -- now, from the weather -- and he clutched his sides, gloves sinking into the fabric of his large overcoat. His glasses were practically frozen to his delicately turned nose and he couldn't see much yet from his wind blinded eyes. Going by memory, his feet finally made it at the foot of the hill, and on impulse, he gave one last look up to the top.  
  
The only monument there of any interest was the Crawford family well. His father had his ashes scattered there, two autumns ago, by the boy's very own hands. A small tombstone had been placed there to serve as a grave marker, like his grandfather, and so on -- he had gone up to see it today, since they were leaving to the States tomorrow. England was so bitter cold and gray to young Bradley - it did not help his worn young heart lighten any easier.  
  
The eleven-year-old turned his back to the grave, beginning to trod to the winter house, trying to hide his ears in the cuff of his coat as the wind howled harder. Snippets of memory haunted him as he walked, his blurry eyes unfocusing a little as they did so. His memories were precious and dear to him, the ones of his father ... and so few, since he'd been so busy in his life. Strong and handy, handsome and gentle ... a wonderful father, whose teachings were long missed. The boy knew there was more he had needed to learn from his father, now two autumns returned to the dust.   
  
Because Bradley had a gift, one that his father and mother both possessed. He could See snippets of the future, if he was to try so hard, and occasionally he'd be granted Visions instead of having to strain labourously for one. He'd never quite noticed it before -- he was not conscious of it as a child -- but at age seven he had begun to train under his father's care. At age nine, those lessons ended ... and his family had found itself with a leading male role, empty and waiting to be filled.  
  
Since then Bradley had become the 'man-of-the-house,' and fit in with every storybook boy who had to do such a thing: he was always responsible and never showed any sort of weakness to his mother and his young sister, Julie. No tears could be shed by him nor any negative emotion shown. He must be strong.  
  
The entire point of visiting his father's grave, however, was to finally let go of the pain he'd felt for two years. He never cried much as a child but he had felt lately this great depression on his heart and mind that he could not answer to in public. So, as they stayed their yearly vacation at his father's family's abode, he had decided to go and 'talk' to his father as he allowed himself to break. To show weakness to no one but the man he had tried to replace. He cried his heart out in front of his father's grave, his body releasing two whole years of dry-eyed tension.  
  
Bradley wondered why he didn't feel much better now, after having done that.  
  
The smell of a woodburning fire greated his nose in the prick of sense that let him know he was close to home without having to see it. It had begun to sleet, just slightly, the stinging drum of ice on his cheeks was incredibly obnoxious -- he wanted to get inside as quickly as possible. Then, he would go back to being the father, the son, and older brother of the Crawford family. He bit his lip and tried to mentally prepare for the switch of attitude. He had cried but he could blame so on the weather. That was the only saving grace of the freezing cold conditions.  
  
As he neared the gravel driveway, the noise of his sister crying startled him. Julie, at age five, had never made much noise, even since she was a baby. She had many fits like this, however -- in fact, she'd been crying for their mother all this week. He couldn't tell why - Jane Crawford was quite healthy and wasn't planning on leaving the house at all, since Julie needed care. Julie would cry for almost a week on end during these spells, and no matter how many years passed, she never seemed to grow out of it.  
  
Bradley regarded the driveway as his eyes cast down to keep them out of the direction of the winds. Fresh marks on the dirt and stones made him wonder who'd been there ... his aunt and uncle had already shown up yesterday. Perhaps mother went out for some groceries, and knew he was going to be home soon to take care of Julie ... Bradley scowled. His mother sometimes did the most inappropriate things and he despised it. He was responsible, indeed -- but he would've rather liked to have been told about his duties.  
  
The crying for their mother got louder, and it began to settle in Bradley's heart in the form of fear. Why did he somehow feel this incredible sense of dread? His heart hardened at the mere sign that he was becoming afraid -- face set to stone, he reached for the knob.  
  
He opened the door and the cold metal joints creaked at the effort. "Hello?" he inquired softly into the house, the ringing of Julie's voice bouncing around the foyer from the upstairs loft. His cold, tired feet pressed on into the kitchen ... a flash of his power produced an image of the doorway, and he decided to follow his psychic hunch.  
  
Sometimes Bradley wished that his small, uncontrolled flashes of the future would  
become more complete, even if that broke the fun of surprises ... it also aided in telling him where and where not to go. As he opened the door to the room his mind had shown him,  
something wet but warm hit his nose. Then he looked up.  
  
Blood drained from wounds as his mother hung suspended from the rafter, droplets of  
red raining down upon him. All the boy could do was look up and suck in a deep breath, his  
usually stoic demeanor broken into one of repulsion and of pure horror.  
  
She had been hung, her wrists slit and ankles bound. The scarlet liquid continued to pit-pat down Bradley's head as he stood in the pool of her still bright lifeblood. He reached up to touch one of her cold, white hands, ignoring with glazed eyes the rivulets of red that still collected and dripped from slightly curled, blued fingertips. It slicked off on his shaking hands, and he pulled his fingers back to look at them, legs slowly starting to give way.  
  
"Mama, " he whispered quietly.  
  
It hit him then that his mother was dead, as his sister's cries echoed repeatedly through the small cabin along with howls of the storm picking up outside. Tears came to his eyes as he could not explain the feeling he felt inside of his tight chest. Bradley kneeled beneath the quiet swinging of his dead mother, tuning out the emotional shrieks of a child, the great gale and pomp of the iced tempest outside, and no one remained alive that could comfort him as he cried.  
  
--*  
  
He stood out in the storm, in the middle of nowhere, not caring who was staring, letting rivulets of polluted water and ice caress his skin and dirty his otherwise spotless outfit. He looked very unprofessional, his hair sticking to his face, clinging to his slightly fogged glasses, and the folds of his clothes pasted to his frame. His appearance was haggard and unkempt, unlike him, far unlike him.  
  
His trance had broken and he remained broken, letting the precipitation mingle with his tears as they stared up, unseeing into the gray expanse of the sky.  
  
Memories were clouding his Visions and that was all he could See now, was the past, and nothing more. His power had suspended itself as Fate threw back in his face the pain he had suffered upon other people which he thought he'd forgotten. It angered him, repulsed him, that he could not push his past behind him and keep his mind on more important things. He'd always promised to go *forward* ... it was part of his Gift, and he would not remain a slavechild to his past. He refused. His mind had other plans for him.  
  
But he was in the icy storm of the start of winter in the middle of some old forgotten park, his body shivering in grief suppressed so long and the cold that was threatening to crawl into every pore and suck the life from him. It wasn't the first time this month he'd done this ... he would reach a state at home where he could barely sleep and so he'd leave, to go here, to go anywhere, just to stand in nowhere and try to quiet his mind.   
  
Crawford did not notice Schuldig approaching, but it was no surprise. Before, when the other man would come for him, he hadn't paid attention to him then either. The German simply shook his head and stood away from him about five feet away.  
  
"You're going to catch a cold," Schuldig murmured quietly in English.  
  
"Mmm." Schuldig was surprised to get a response, and Crawford continued, "I suppose."  
  
"I suppose it doesn't matter, then?"  
  
"I suppose it doesn't."   
  
Schuldig looked almost repulsed himself as he took hold of Crawford's upper arm and helped him amble home. The flaws Crawford was showing him were unbelievable. He never became this weak after having Visions, though Schuldig knew it left a person addled. And for all the hours he waited in hellishly cold weather for Crawford's mental pattern, he supposed it was a very powerful trance that had overtaken him.   
  
His green eyes lit over to give a look at Crawford's face, which was closer to his level due to the American's slouched and prideless posture. Hollow-looking eyes that stared at some distant nothing were matched with a raw face (wind, water, weeping?) and tilted glasses that had black strands of limp hair pasted to the frames.  
  
This was not the man that ruthlessly mocked Fujimiya Aya and his associates, planned and carried out spotlessly perfect missions, planned out a bright and brilliant future for them all, that was so tactical and cold and emotionless and in control of his life. Who he was leading home was some husk of a sickly lost boy, starving himself gaunt on some aimless whim, leading himself down a dead end road. That aching itch of unfamiliar worry began to gnaw at Schuldig's stomach as he took his eyes away from the drawn, ghostly countenance.  
  
Schuldig wordlessly walked Crawford's shadow back to their apartment, as he had before, and it wasn't the curtain of freezing rain that made the slim man shudder, but the fact that he was leading home the dead.  



End file.
